much like I did when I barricaded our Ciudad Juárez apartment door with most of the living room furniture before going to bed. Every single night. For months on end.
No one was going to get to my boys.
Sleep meant patrolling the five rooms two or three times a night, hovering over my sons pretzeled bodies until their breath filled the room with layers of pungent sweet stinkyness, I swear, only boys exude.
During the interminable day, I busied myself while on patrol and took inventory of all minutia outside our kitchen window as I kept vigil on my boys and at the same time prepared meals, cleaned up, or held on to the kitchen sink praying for a sliver of my grandmothers’ backbone.
By the end of the second month, a chant seemingly attuned to my breathing, echoed throughout my day, I just need to get home. I just need to get home. Ijustneedtogethome. Ijustneedtogethome.
I am home, but at times like these, I’m back in Juárez.